


in the arms of life and death

by iamnotbrianmay



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Blessings, Curses, Fluff and Smut, Gore, Haphephobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Happy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Supernatural Elements, Touch-Starved, death - Freeform - Freeform, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotbrianmay/pseuds/iamnotbrianmay
Summary: Roger Meddows Taylor is born with blood in his hands and death in his heart. An unbreakable curse with the lamest silver lining he had ever heard of— he had a soulmate. A single soul made just for him to love, cherish, and be happy with.What a load of bullshit. How could he be happy with anyone if anything he touches will surely die?





	1. the chronicles of a premature death

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, its me, since I couldn't physically stop myself from writing another fanfic when this idea came to life I was forced by my brain to write and post this chapter. Now I'm writing two fanfics, which is great if you ask me. Less time to do homework, more time to write! 
> 
> I hope you like this one, its a very weird concept I have had for three days, now its written down and I am shaking with terror about your reactions. 
> 
> [Here](http://www.links2love.com/flowers_meanings_pictures.htm)is the page were I got all the meanings for the flowers, if you are curious about the flowers used/that will be used, give that page a read.

_**Do not stand at my grave and weep** _  
_**I am not there; I do not sleep.** _

Roger Meddows Taylor is born with blood in his hands and death in his heart.

The doctors treat him with utmost care, making sure that his head is held upright, his skin is cleaned from all blood, and he is wrapped tightly in a bundle of warm blankets. However, they type his birthmark into the system with anger, because people start pitying and being angry in Roger's behalf from the moment he is born.

His mother cries once he is taken into his father's arms and she is sure she won't drop him. The Hemlock which adorns his skin is nearly a death sentence, and ironically it's the most beautiful flower mark anyone had ever seen. It blooms right above Roger's heart, a bunch of delicate and elegant buds which looked as if the most talented painter in the world had taken hours to draw.

Of course, it's only right that the most terrible curses get the most beautiful flowers.

His father holds him tight against his chest, cooing at the newly born and blinking back the tears. The five-leaved clover that covered Michael's heart burning; taunting him with his never-ending bad luck. Luck that had passed down to his baby.

The blond boy gurgled, and Michael let out a soft sob. A single tear fell onto the boy's cheek, and the doctors left the trio to grieve alone. It was then that Michael Taylor started begging for his son's forgiveness, even if the boy was too small to even understand what was being said to him.

 _**I am a thousand winds that blow,** _  
_**I am the diamond glints on snow,** _

In the beginning, and for a long time, Roger remained giftless.

He is still branded as a _Cursed_ , though, and forced to go to a school meant for _Cursed_ children only, until his gift shows. At first, he has dozens of friends, his toothless grin and charismatic personality does wonders for him. He goes around charming students and teachers alike, and by the end of the first semester, there is barely a Friday afternoon in which he finds himself at home.

But things inevitably change, and the first one to go is a little girl called Rosa. She had a mane of red hair, and a grin that makes every boy and girl fall in love with her. They are all sitting in a classroom, attentively listening as their teacher reads a book about a lost bird trying to find his family when Rosa asks the question that changes everything.

"Miss Pearl?"

"Yes, Rosa?"

"Can I sit in your lap?"

"Of course, Rosa. Anything for my favourite girl."

It's a simple request, something that shouldn't have sent alarms ringing, but suddenly the class is buzzing with anger. Shouts and complains ring all over the room and poor Rosa is left in the middle of the chaos, with fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Roger is the only one unaffected by the gift, he has never been and will never be a jealous person. He looks around the room as children jeered and insulted Rosa until his head feels like it's about to explode and his ears are ringing. He grabs Rosa's hand and runs out of the classroom, ignoring the screams from their teacher.

Once they are alone, sitting on the lid of one of the boy's bathrooms, Roger urges Rosa to show him her flower. All of their flowers are well-kept secrets, only meant to be spoken out loud once their _time_ comes, intended to warn or guide people once their gift showed.

Hesitantly she lowered the hem of her yellow, cotton, dress and Roger let out a soft _'oh'_ once he saw the mark.

"Hyacinth bloom." She whispered, lisp making it hard to pronounce the name correctly.

"Jealousy."

She nodded and let the hem settle back to its original state. He gathered a little bit of toilet paper and dried her tears, the ones that were still falling after the stressful event.

"My mom says it's not our fault when our gift makes people act differently." He tried to comfort her, but her bright eyes look weary.

"Is it because your flower is similar to mine?"

Roger freezes. He is barely six years old, barely over his toddler-age; he should be innocent and believe that maybe his flower wasn't as bad as people thought it would be. But he had stubbornly learned how to read to find out more about his _condition_ , and had heard his mother crying through the thin walls of the house.

He looked at her in the eyes and shook his head, trusting the little girl with the only piece of information he was allowed to give at that moment, "No. It's much worse."

The next morning Rosa had already been transferred to a school for the gifted, and people had come to explain that every single one of them was going to be transferred unless their gifts proved too dangerous to be around other children. The lecturer's eyes zeroed in on Roger, even if he had no idea of what Roger's gift might be, it felt like a premonition of the years to come. 

 _**I am the sun on ripened grain,** _  
_**I am the gentle autumn rain.** _

He is the last one to get his gift.

The classrooms became smaller, the lectures more private, and soon only he and three other people were left out of a class of nearly seventy children.

They are trying to complete a science experiment, and Roger doesn't fail to notice how he is the only one in the classroom that doesn't need to wear thick leather gloves. The other three people had been cursed with the gift of Bellwort, Holy, and Marigold, and therefore had been deemed too dangerous to be around other children until they were at least fourteen years old.

The day starts like any other, he laughs with Khandra, makes fun of Luis, and nearly gets into a row with Anthony, before his gift gets revealed.

He sticks his hand into the fish tank, trying to catch one of the slowpokes to test their experiment, but when he puts the fish back into the water, it dies immediately.

Roger frowns and pokes at the floating fish with one of his slender fingers, then watches horrified as the meat rots under his touch and falls away, leaving only the skeleton. The other children jump back, trying to put as much distance between Roger and themselves, and he doesn't blame them.

The teacher watches as the chaos unfolds and locks the door. He manages to calm down the three other children in the room and then zeroes in on Roger, who is holding his hands as far away from his body as he can.

The teacher, a balding man with soft brown eyes, kneels in front of Roger and talks him into a state of faux calm that is bound to break at any moment.

"Roger, can you show me your flower?"

The blond shakes his head, as fat tears roll down his cheeks.

"Can you tell me what the flower is, then?"

Another shake of his head, and more tears rolling down his face. He looks back at the fish tank, watching as the remaining flesh drifted to the bottom of the tank.

"Can I call your parents?"

Roger is hesitant, seemingly speechless for the first time since he learned how to talk, but then he nods. The man takes out his phone and dials his mother's number. The conversation is short and grim, and once his teacher is turned back to Roger the older man is looking at him with pity in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Roger."

The tears won't stop coming, and his teacher's eyes are misty.

"I'm so sorry, sweet boy."

He braces himself for the hug that he knows his teacher is prone to giving, but instead, Mr Amourne takes a step back and runs towards the door, screaming at his colleagues for help. He is left standing in the middle of the classroom, alone, terrified, and confused, waiting for something that would never come.

 _**When you awaken in the morning's hush** _  
_**I am the swift uplifting rush** _  
_**Of quiet birds in circled flight.** _

Roger Meddows Taylor never gets to leave the school for the _Cursed._

He grows into a beautiful young man, and his teachers do everything to the best of their abilities to make him as smart as he is good-looking. He teaches some classes for the younger children in his spare time, takes music lessons to drown out his boredom— and grows talented at the art of not touching people.

His gloves help him in unavoidable situations, as does his thick clothing. But for the most part, Roger Meddows Taylor hasn't touched a single living human for more than a fleeting moment since he was nine and a half years old. In fact, he can't even remember what it felt like.

His mother hasn't combed his long blond hair in years, his parents' lips haven't peppered his face with kisses since the morning before the accident, and he has had to sleep alone in cold winters for ten years and counting.

The gloves help with almost everything, including things like his passion for banging the shit out of drums and his ironic talent of gardening. What they don't help with is with his parents' near-constant pity party of their first born.

They only served to worsen it.

They watched with sad eyes as Clare, their beautiful Crocus blessed Clare, took the mantle of the charismatic child. They observed as day after day as she bloomed and he withered.

And when the time came for him to leave school, they had to watch Roger, their _Roggie,_ fall apart.

His already brittle soul chipping away as each of the people he had grown used too wished him the best in life, bowing before him like he was something holy, worthy of admiration. Which in his mother's eyes he was.

Roger, however, hated it when people bowed to him. It was a constant reminder of the fear he had placed in all of their hearts, of the terror they had of what lived inside his veins and was tattooed upon his chest.

But he accepted it, nonetheless, knowing that was the most he was ever going to get, and bowed back.

_**I am the soft stars that shine at night.** _

The day he meets Freddie is the happiest day of Roger's life.

It's the first day he has ever been out of his house in months, and he is headed to one of his teacher's art exposition. An extravagant event hosted by the same woman who had once taught him how to draw people with their hands entwined, or in the middle of a passionate kiss. He wouldn't miss it for the world.

He walks into the gallery with his best suit, thickest long coat, stunning sapphire tie, and his trusty black, leather, gloves. He fits right into the scene for the first time in a while, and he even allows himself to loosen up. He drinks _one_ flute of champagne, knowing precisely what would happen if he drank more and walks around the gallery, engaging in conversation with whoever is brave enough to get close to the _Child of Death,_ as they had nicknamed him a few years prior.

He still didn't allow himself to brush with people, expertly dodging and slithering between crowds to avoid contact. And people, upon seeing his face made way.

But something was inevitably bound to happen.

And while he weaved his way through the crowd, twirling and ducking to avoid contact, he ended up crashing into someone.

Fear gripped his heart in a vice grip as he landed on the floor. He scrambled to his elbows as fast as possible and saw that the person he had crashed into, a thin boy with raven black hair, was looking at him with wide eyes. They stared at each other, waiting for the worst to happen, before the other boy spoke.

_"Jump up and down and twirl around."_

The body-numbing fear was instantly replaced by endless amounts of confusion. Roger made a face, shook his head as if trying to see if the boy was real, and then rubbed his eyes for good measure. "What?"

The relief that rolled of the other man was palpable, "Oh thank God, I thought I had touched you."

It was only then that Roger noticed the thick leather gloves on the man's hands, and the Wax plant pin attached to his coat.

"Sorry for the weird first impression, by the way, I'm Freddie Bulsara, Susceptibility."

Roger raised his eyebrows, "Not scared flaunt your curse, I see."

Freddie shrugged, "Better to warn people before they get a nasty surprise. My gift is something you can't quite shake off."

Roger eyed the boy with curiosity, taking in his white tuxedo and silver coat. He scanned the flawlessly applied makeup, the hundreds of necklaces and chokers he was sporting, and the gorgeous Wax plant pin made out of crystals. He also admired the way that he was laying on the floor, talking with a random stranger about the bane of their existence while looking like he did just that every single day.

"Roger Taylor, Death," he said while fiddling with the cuff of his coat, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  
_**Do not stand at my grave and cry,** _  
_**I am not there; I did not die.** _

_**- Mary Elizabeth Frye** _


	2. the curses of the blessed children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian Harold May is born with laughter in his eyes and life on his fingertips. He is born with a beautiful voice and talented hands. He grows to be an intelligent young man with unbridled passion and curiosity. 
> 
> The only take back was that he never really had a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, Brian is older than John IRL but for this fanfic's sake I made him younger. Just cause I want someone to guide my poor baby boy.

**Our revels are now ended.**

**These our actors,**

**As I foretold you**

The day Brian Harold May is born the stars on the night sky seemed to shine brighter. 

Rumours spread like wild fire, passing from room to room in the small hospital, words being shouted from person to person until there isn't a single soul in the hospital that doesn't know. Up on the third floor, in the room tucked on the farthest corner of the maternity ward, a boy with a  _Lucerne_ bloom had been born. A beautiful, fair skinned, angel who had been given the precious gift of  _life._

Yes, there wasn't going to be something as exciting as that for a long while. 

Doctors and patients alike strolled into the room, cooing and bringing gift to the baby boy, who in exchange left them feeling brand new. Illnesses and old pains wiped clean with the touch of a new born.  Ruth and Harold allowed for the parade of people to pass by, smiling at striking up conversation as they prepared to leave the hospital. 

They gently put simple, space themed, pyjamas on the little boy, wrapped him up in a blanket, and tucked him inside a wrap carrier. He didn't fuss, didn't cry, merely nuzzling into his mother's chest and basking in her warmth. Harold opened the door for Ruth, and found that outside there was a person waiting for them, not a nurse, or a doctor, but a woman with fuzzy brown hair and sad eyes. 

They smiled, waiting for the woman to ask for a favour, but instead she only asked to see the little boy. She cooed and avoided touching him, talking to them about how beautiful and strong he would grow up to be. 

"Are you sick?" Ruth asked kindly, "He could help you if you are." 

"I'm not—" Fresh tears brimmed the woman's eyes, and she shook her head, "I don't think he can help us." 

"Of course he can!" Pipped in Harold, "He has  _Lucerne_ in his blood, he can cure anything." 

The woman stumbled through her words, trying to explain herself until she decided it was better just to show the couple instead of talking. She pulled down the hem of her shirt, bringing it down until her mark was revealed. Except there was nothing to reveal, just milky white skin and a freckle or two. 

And that is how the May's met _John Deacon_. The first person Brian May couldn't save. 

**were all spirits and**

**Are melted into air,**

**into thin air:  
**

John Deacon was a sick little boy, two years Brian's senior. He also happens to be  _Unmarked._

Brain was often by his bedside when he was sick. Growing up had been spent mainly in hospitals, not because it was required of him but because he couldn't leave his best friend out of sight. He would sit by John's bed, reading the older boy books, telling him about stars, and telling him how it would feel for John if he could touch him and heal him. 

They'd make up wild theories about how the treatments had probably changed John's hair colour to green. Or how it was probably going to grow back and look like Brian's wild and curly hair.

They had grown up together from the moment that their parents became friends, and now that they were older they remained friends through think and thin. literally. And on the nights were John was too weak for Brian to stay by his side, he was reduced to laying on his bed. Waiting for news of his friend, acutely aware that if things were just a little different John would be out of the hospital in no time. 

**And like the baseless fabric of this vision,**

**The cloud-capp’d towers,**

**the gorgeous palaces,**

Brian and John rapidly learn that John's gift is not having _any_ gift— thus not being able to be affected by anything. 

While Brian is easily swayed into different moods from the people around him, John is beside him like an anchor bringing him back to earth. While Brian can't help people with gifts bound to make him loose himself or react terribly, John was there to bandage them up under Brian's watchful eye and careful instruction. 

When for the first time Brian found out that someone wanted to be his friend not because of him as a person but because of his gift, John was there to pick up the pieces. 

The worst part about that incident, John realised later, was that Brian could stay broken for long. It was like his system, his helpful  _Lucerne_ blessed system was there to heal him whenever  _anything_ was wrong. Even when Brian's pain was necessary, and that seemed to break Brian more than anything else. More than the scornful looks John would get for his mark-less body, more than the fact that people used Brian more often than not. 

They were sitting at the top of the hill closest to John's house. Sitting with their back against the bark of the old oak tree, and watching as the sun set and tainted the sky of a thousand different colours. Their sneakers were dirty from playing all afternoon, Brian's pants were ripped from having fallen from trees twice, and John's patchy hair was sticky with sweat. 

It started with one rock, and ended with Brian's blood fist against the tree bark. 

John watched in horror as his younger friend scream in frustration, kicking the tree and throwing stones, only to then fall to the ground completely devoid of the terrible anger he had been feeling seconds before. The peace lasted for maybe three seconds before Brian burst into tears once again. Only this time John had the courage to go up to him and take the younger boy into his lap. 

Brian sniffled into his shoulder, wetting his shirt with tears and snot, "It's not  _fair._ " 

"No," John agreed, "not fair at all." 

Seconds later, when the Lucerne worked its effects into Brian's brain and left him feeling peaceful again, John was left crying alone in behalf of his friend. 

**The solemn temples,**

**the great globe itself,**

**Yea all which it inherit,**

No one even bothers to ask Brian if he wants to become a doctor or not. One day John is hearing Brian mumble about stars and planets while they answer their respective course work, and then next Brian is telling him that he is going to start studying medicine the moment summer is over. And John? 

John is livid about this decision. 

He knows for a fact that being a doctor is  _not_ what Brian wants to be. His head is to full curiosity, and his eyes to filled with stars, to want to study about blood and death. He brings it up with Harold May later on, and gets into a screaming match with the man he though of as his second father. The argument is only cut short once Brian arrives. 

The younger boy leans against the wall behind John, watching the argument happen until they give him the perfect opening to chime in. 

"It was my decision, John," Brian said sternly, and something in the bassist broke, "Not my father's, not my mother's, not anyone else but me." 

"But why?"  _That's not who you want to be, that's not what you want to be. Why must you kill your dreams to please everyone else?_

"I did it because of you." 

One second John is a twenty year old man with long hair and strong arms, the next he is a little five year old boy, bald, sick, and frail. The only thing that brings back Brian from this hallucination of his is a sharp sting across his cheek, and John's tear filled eyes. 

"Don't you _dare_ kill yourself for my sake." 

The slap stings for longer than it should have. 

**shall dissolve**

**And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,**

**Leave not a rack behind.**

"And the parietal lobe is?" 

"The main sensory receptor area for the sense of touch." 

"And the frontal lobe?" 

"The control room for cognitive skills." 

"You seem to know everything. I don't even know why you are studying anymore." 

"I just need too, can't afford to fail." 

"You wouldn't if you actually liked what you were doing." 

" _John_." 

A beat of silence. 

"I'm _not_ having this argument again." 

**We are such stuff**

**As dreams are made on,**

The rain was falling outside his window like a torrent. Thunder striking here and there, making the cup in John's hand tremble. Or maybe the tremble was due to something else. Silence and darkness ruled the house that was so usually full of life, and sat in the middle of the chaos was John.

When Brian threw the door open John's tea had gone cold, and his tears had dried out. 

The younger man looked almost like a different person with his hair soaking wet and his lips blue with cold. John wanted to walk over and scold his brother for running in the rain. For not bothering to wait for a taxi or something that would help him avoid get wet. But his muscles were unresponsive; useless for anything more than trembling in fear. 

Brian ran over slamming the door, and tearing over all of his wet clothes before touching John. That action alone was enough to make tears well up in the older man's eyes again. And when Brian started making circles with his thumbs over John's hands, the bassist broke. 

"This isn't  _fair."_

John thought about the exam results. The horrid piece of white paper that had changed everything for the second time in his life. 

"No," John sobbed, "Not fair at all." 

And for the first time in the history of their friendship John doesn't have to cry alone. 

**and our little life**

**Is rounded in a sleep.**

 

> **\- Our revels are now ended, William Shakespeare**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked Brian and John’s intro. next chapter is when the real problem will begin. 
> 
> flowers used in this chapter 
> 
> -Lucerne (Life) 
> 
> I’m a slut for Kudos and Comments.


	3. the trials of an unlikely friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day they meet the world seems to tilt on its axis. Because regardless of the timeline, regardless of the universe, Queen— or the friendships that forge between the four boys— is always a universal constant. 
> 
> One universal constant amongst many.

__**Behind the blameless tree  
** **old fate builds slowly  
** **her mute countenance.  
** **wrinkles grow there...**

The day the four of them meet the world seems to tilt on it's axis. 

They must make quite the sight sitting in the emergency room at three in the morning. One of them dying, one of them bleeding, one of them crying, and the oldest of them all dressed in something that should belong in a strip club. They are the only ones in the waiting room, and for some reason the tension in the air is palpable. 

Once the nurse comes in, looking like she needed a cup of coffee or two, the four of them perk up. Waiting to see who was going to get called inside. She rubbed her forehead before speaking, "I wish I didn't have to be the one calling you in, but there is no one else left to do that job for me. So before the fight breaks out, please know that my bloom is a Hyacinth, and whoever I call in second will probably get very jealous." 

That makes the four of them chuckle for varying different reasons, the grin that spread across Roger's face was particularly painful though. The cut that bloomed across his face stinging with the motion. He, however, was not the one who spoke. 

"It's okay, I can probably handle Brian if things get out of hand." 

"With what?" Freddie retorted, "Your _strong_ muscles?" 

" _Freddie."_ Roger snapped, "Don't be an asshat." 

The older man brought his hand up to cover his mouth, eyes going wide, "Sorry, darling. I guess her presence is stronger that I thought it would be." 

John waved his hand dismissively, "I would be jealous of me too, if I had your build." 

Now it was Brian's turn for an mortified, " _John!"_

"Sorry," the brunette said, "I had to get back at him." 

"It's alright," Freddie said, "It's probably the jealousy in the air." 

"Oh he doesn't get affected," Brian said while glaring at the other boy, "He is just a _gigantic_ prick sometimes." 

For a few seconds Roger thinks that maybe Freddie will snap at the other boy, but instead a sly smile crosses his face, "Oh, I think I like you. Do you two happen to play some form of instrument?" 

The nurse cleared her throat before any of them could answer. 

**  
** __**What a bird shrieks here  
** **springs like a gasp of warning  
** **from a soothsayer's hard mouth.**

They get cots right next to each other, and during their chat Roger learns two very interesting things from the other boys. One of them is unmarked, and the other one has the exact opposite of Roger's mark.  _Life,_ John says bitterly as he toys with the small tube that breathes air into his weak lungs,  _and healing. Though it can be quite a pain in the ass if you ask me._

_Lucern._

Roger couldn't quite get the word out of his head. Not after he realised the implications of the flower that adorned the other man's chest. Roger Meddows Taylor was born with blood in his hands and death in his heart. An unbreakable curse with the lamest silver lining he had ever heard of— he had a soulmate. A single soul made just for him to love, cherish, and be happy with. A soul which had the exact opposite gift as him, a perfect complement to his depressing little world. 

What a load of bullshit. He couldn't touch anyone,  _wouldn't_ touch anyone, how was he supposed to have a soulmate? 

Yet, Brian was sitting right there, fuzzing over John as the sick boy fiddled with his oxygen tank. He could feel it in the way that his skin vibrated when he got close to Brian, in the way the the other boy looked like heaven had sent him, even if he was most definitely not the most beautiful person he had ever seen. In the way that his heart skipped a beat when Brian laughed, or when he looked at Roger with genuine curiosity, instead of a morbid one. 

He couldn't do that to Brian, couldn't break his heart by telling him that his soulmate was someone that he couldn't risk touching. So when John turned towards him and asked him in that sweet accent of his what his flower was, Roger didn't hesitate,  _Forget-me-not's, very nasty if anyone ever touched me._

He didn't miss the sad smile Fred shot him, but he did miss the fleeting moment of disappointment that crossed Brian's face. 

_**And the soon-to-be lovers  
** _ _**smile on each other, not yet knowing farewell,** _

Brian stayed looking at the door for a few seconds longer than necessary, wondering if it would be so bad to lose all of his memories. He barely noticed when John called his name three times. He only snapped out of his daze when the older man grabbed his shoulder, " _Brian."_

"Sorry," Brian shook his head, curly hair tickling his face, "got lost in thought." 

"I can see that," in his platform boots John was an inch or two taller than Brian, "it's like the third time this week you get lost in thought while looking at Roger." 

Brian bristled, "I wasn't looking at  _Roger,_ I was looking at the  _door_." 

"Which Roger just walked out off." 

Brian blushed, and shrugged John's hand off his shoulder, "Let me be, John." 

He walked over to his guitar case, making sure to clean his Old Lady before carefully placing her inside the case. Which had been a gift from Roger and Freddie two weeks ago when Brian had turned eighteen. He heard John sigh, "That's what I have been doing for the past five months, Bri. But it has gotten out of hand, so out of hand that you even missed your  _real_ soulmate." 

At that he felt himself freeze, his heart clench, and the uncomfortable burn that came when a new flower burned itself into his skin. He tired not to flinch at the pain, but it was almost impossible, and he took Deaky's silence as an unsaid ' _I told you so'._ Once the pain subsided Brian ran his tongue over his teeth in annoyance and closed the case with much more force than necessary, "Yeah well, it's too late to do something about it, is it not?" 

"What, so you are going to let your self get sick because you are ass over tits for someone that you can't even touch?" 

Brian shrugged, "Would be nice to finally get sick, wouldn't it?" 

The younger man bit his lower lip once he realised what he had said. He heard John take in a long, laborious, breath, "No, I don't feel like being sick is as nice as you make it seem." 

" _John—_ " 

But the bassist had already left the studio. 

__**and round about them, like a constellation,  
their destiny casts   
its nightly spell. **

"You have to tell him eventually, you know?" 

The room was barely illuminated by the light coming from the hallway. Roger, however, didn't need the light to see the flowers lining his chest. They stretched all the way from the bottom left half of his ribcage, into his arm and over his shoulder. The latest addition to his ever growing collection, the one he had gained when watching Brian play a particularly difficult solo that day, looked and felt dangerously close to his neck. A few more flowers and he would start choking with love, which was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. 

"I can't _do_ that." 

Freddie walked closer to Roger, "What? You can't save him from dying from a broken heart?" 

"Freddie, you _know_ that's not what I mean." 

"That's what it sounds like!" Freddie snapped, "You try to ' _protect_ ' him from you, yet you are harming both of you. You try to keep him safe, but you aren't giving him an option. It shouldn't be only your choice to make Roger!" 

Roger turned, fire in his blue eyes and fists shaking with anger, "I'm not doing this only because of him, Freddie! Do you know what it would do to me if something were to happen to Brian because of my fault? Do you know what would happen if I could no longer hear him play his stupid guitar? Or talk about his bloody stars?" 

Freddie watched horrified as flowers started to bloom furiously across Roger's arm and chest. 

"Do you know what it would do to me if we both knew that we were each other's soulmate? Do you know what would happen to me if he started looking at me like I was his moon, his stars, and everything in between?"

The flowers made their way across Roger's chest and up the side of his neck. 

"What it would do to me if he knew that if things were just a little bit different I could get close him? I could go to sleep with him in the same bed? I could hold his hand? Hug him?  _Kiss_ _him_?" 

That's when the first vine wrapped around Roger's throat, and he descended into a coughing fit. Clawing at his throat with desperation, and trying to calm himself down. Freddie was by his side in an instant, leather covered hands cradling the younger boy's face with the utmost care, trying to get him to  _breathe._

Once Roger calmed down Freddie released a breath he didn't know he was holding, "That's good. You're back. Thank  _God."_

Roger took a shuddering breath, filling his lungs with as much air as he could get inside them. And when he spoke, his voice sounded like he hadn't used it in over a century, "It would  _kill me,_ Fred." 

Freddie carefully shifted Roger so that his head was laying on Freddie's lap. The touch was uncomfortable, to say the least. It felt too hot, too heavy, and made them both anxious beyond belief. But at the same time Freddie found that he didn't have the heart to make Roger suffer alone. Not tonight. 

Just like he didn't have the heart to tell his younger brother that not telling Brian was _also_ going to kill him, and very, _very_ , soon. 

_**Still to come, it does not reach out to them,** _   
_**it remains** _   
_**a phantom** _   
_**floating in its heavenly curse.** _

> _**-** _ **Behind the Blameless Trees, Rainer Maria Rike** _**  
>  ** _


	4. the waltz of two ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrongs are righted, secrets come to light, and everything starts to make sense until it doesn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I have to formally apologize for the confusion the last chapters have caused. I was just trying to be experimental as hell, and make the chapters in which they aren't together very confusing and the chapters in which they are finally together less confusing. 
> 
> I know it didn't quite work but yeah, I tried. Now enjoy! And I hope this chapter solved a lot of questions!

_**Same lips red, same eyes blue** _  
_**Same white shirt, couple more tattoos** _  
_**But it's not you and it's not me** _

__John's doctor said that the dirty London air was doing John more harm than good. Brian knew that would inevitably happen, yet he dreaded the moment it came around. That is until Roger told them that his family had a small cottage by the Irish coast, and it felt like the younger man could breathe again. Not only were they getting what John needed, but they wouldn't be alone. They would have Freddie and Roger by his side. And while his loneliness thanked the heavens for the small mercy, more flowers bloomed across his chest, at the thought of Roger and his kindness.

John's words flew around his head in a frenzy, reminding him that soulmates, regardless of how pretty and romantic they sound, are a curse on their own. A Hanahaki of sorts, like the old tales described, where the victims would cough up flowers until their love was returned.

Only that for this there was no cure, no magical surgery with terrible side effects. Just pain and death, bound to catch up to Brian the moment his flower had had enough of its loneliness.

The worst part was that Brian's condition had a name, a face, and vines of his own wrapped around his throat. 

_**Tastes so sweet, looks so real** _  
_**Sounds like something that I used to feel** _  
_**But I can't touch what I see** _

 

  
It comes after one of John's episodes, the ones were he is short of breath after laughing until his stomach hurts. The ones where their glee is cut short by John's lack of breath and weakness. Where his lungs have to work three or four times as much as before, even with the cannula pumping air into his lungs. For now, Freddie is taking care of him, making sure he can breathe properly, helping him through his coughing fits, and cuddling the younger man when needed. A house favourite ever since Freddie had discovered that the younger man couldn't get affected by his poisonous touch.

Brian, on the other hand, is looking at the stars.

They look magnificent in the low light of the Irish seaside. Bright and sparkling, showing Brian the immensity of the universe and making the tiny bit of regret he had for choosing to study medicine. A career he didn't even get to finish, given that the wight years had been cut short because of the band's sudden success. Then he remembered all the times he helped John because of his unfinished degree and reminded himself that the stars would always be there, regardless of whatever happened. John was something much more ephemeral.

He was so deep in thought that he barely noticed the creak in the wood beside him and the sudden warmth that seemed to radiate from the older man that sat beside him. It was only until Roger cleared his throat that Brian looked towards him— and was taken by surprise of how beautiful Roger looked. He could barely make out the other man, but the faint light cast by the porch light was enough to let him make out his soft features; and the fact that he was only wearing a white shirt.

It's large enough for Brian to recognise it as his own, and the sight of Roger with nothing but jeans, a single short-sleeved shirt, and gloves is enough to send his heart into a frenzy. All he can think about is how the younger man looks like an angel, and about how he is probably going to die chocked by a bunch of flowers. Brian flinches at the burn of the flowers etching themselves across his back, and Roger sighs, "That was my fault, wasn't it?"

Brian's eyes widen, "You know?"

Roger looks like he wants to say something, but the words get caught in his throat, and he ends up saying, "You are not exactly subtle, Brimi."

"I'm sorry."

The seaside wind sweeps Roger's hair away from his f, and his eyes flicker to the horizon, "We don't choose what we fall in love with."

"What?" Brian frowns.

"What." Roger agrees, "It's not your fault to fall in love with a murderer."

Brian is left alone before he can ask what Roger means. The older man hops from the roof they had both been perched in and closes the door to the house with more force than strictly necessary. For the second time that night Brian is left alone with the unreachable stars and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. 

 

_**We're not who we used to be** _  
_**We're not who we used to be** _  
_**We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me** _  
_**Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat** _

The wind is colder on the second night that Brian finds himself sat on the roof of the cottage, the waves roar louder, and the wind feels like knives on his skin. For the second time that week, Roger sits beside him, looking up into the stars, breeze ruffling his hair, and one of Brian's cardigans over his shoulders. He looks incredibly soft, and Brian's heart swelled, but no flowers bloomed across his chest.

Several minutes of silence pass between them, until Brian turns towards Roger and asks the question he has meant to ask, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you hide it from me?"

Roger turned towards him, eyes wide and filled with regret, "How did you find out?"

"I had my doubts," Brian shrugged, "then my flowers stopped chocking me every single time I thought about how beautiful you are, and well."

The silence hung between them for a few heavy minutes. Then Roger's voice cut through it, "I'm sorry."

Brian turned to look at the older man, "Don't be. I'm not mad."

"You're not?"

Brian shook his head, "I get it. Kind off. Must be terrifying for you."

"More than you know," Roger whispered, "More than you know."

And well, if more vines wrapped around Roger's throat, choking him and promising to snuff his light out at any second. Brian didn't have to know.

 

_**The fridge light washes this room white** _  
_**Moon dances over your good side** _  
_**This was all we used to need** _

 

out for hours. He wonders if the boys had read his note already, or maybe it had been thrown to the trash and they were all looking for him desperately. Whatever the note's fate, he couldn't stop now. Not when the town and the promise of answers are so close by.

The doctors ask him questions, things like _are you certain he is your soulmate_? and the much more uncomfortable _have you had any sexual relationships with your soulmate_ _yet?_ They act like they haven't seen his mark like they don't know that touching Brian is practically a death sentence for the other boy, and he tries not to feel annoyed by that fact. When he answers the questions, the nurses give each other worried glances, and then look at him with Kind eyes.

"Well, darlin' that seems to be the problem." Roger can't quite understand what an American woman is doing in a small town in Oreland, but he decides not to question it.

"What? Not having had sex with him?"

The woman rolls his eyes, "No, sweetheart, the fact that you haven't touched him."

Anger licks at the pit of his stomach, "Oh I see, so the cure for me not dying is killing him?"

His hands start to tremble as he remembers the feel of decomposing flesh beneath his palms. She smiles again, "You can't kill him, he is your soulmate."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your gifts are supposed to cancel out, sweetie," she explains like she is talking with a three-year-old, "you can't kill him, and he can't cure you. When you are together, it's just you and him. No curses, no blessings, only the two of you."

That's precisely what he wants to hear, but regardless something in his stomach twists.

 

_**Tongue-tied like we've never known** _  
_**Telling those stories we already told** _  
_**'Cause we don't say what we really mean** _

 

The third time they end up in the rooftop, disaster strikes.

It's not a sad evening, in fact, Brian and Roger are having the time of their lives. Freddie and John are swaying lightly to the beat of the music while he and Brian are dancing around. For the first time since he has met Brian, he doesn't think that the leather of his gloves looks wrong against Brian's pale skin. And for the first time in forever, Roger doesn't feel the foreboding sensation of vines wrapping around his throat when he looks at Brian's smile, and he thinks that the younger man is the most beautiful human being on the planet.

One minute he is falling in love, the next he plummeting to the floor.

The pain shoots from his feet up to his hair, and then when he falls down on his ass, he lands on top of his arm. The pain is enough to make him scream like a little kid, and he even manages to black out for a few seconds. When he wakes up, Brian is beside him, tending to his hand which looks bent in an odd angle and hurts like nothing Roger has felt before.

Then he notices Brian is holding his hand, and he isn't wearing his _gloves_.

 

_**We're not who we used to be** _  
_**We're not who we used to be** _  
_**We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im a slut for kudos, comments, and feedback! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading.


	5. the curse of two lovers

_**Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings** _   
_**I’m sending to you on butterfly wings.** _   
_**Pennies are wasted on a wishing well.** _   
_**Pennies instead for sweet thoughts that you tell.** _

At first, when Roger woke up, he wondered if maybe he could stay asleep forever.

For a few seconds, he found himself in blissful sleep. There was sun streaming down on his face making him warm and cosy, there was soft music coming from somewhere in the room, and the pain in his arm had been reduced to a dull throbbing. Then his brain caught up to the events of the night before, and he couldn't stop the bile that rose from his stomach.

Images of Brian holding his arm, touching his _skin_ , without any protection made him dizzy.

Dizzy enough to empty out what little he had inside his stomach to the floor. He doesn't acknoledge when someone placed a bin underneath his mouth or held back his hair, he only knew that the touch was enough to induce another round of vomiting. When it stopped, when his stomach was empty from everything he had eaten in the last few days, he let himself slump forward. Tears filled the corners of his eyes, and a sob escaped his throat followed by a pitiful moan.

A hand was placed gently on his shoulder, and Roger found himself too weak to shoo away whoever was stupid enough to touch him.

He felt someone press their lips on the top of his head, racking a hand through his hair, "It's okay."

His heart stuttered at Brian's voice.

"It's okay, darling," he murmured again, "I'm here."

_**Oh, pennies from heaven as your heart sings** _   
_**waterfall wishes on stars with no swings** _   
_**and dandelion dreams you hope will come true.** _   
_**I’ll click my red heels to bring them to you.** _

The second time Roger wakes, there is the distinct smell of berry tea and the sound of scribbling.

Roger cracks open one eye, they feel puffy, and his head hurts from the small breakdown he had a few hours prior. When he looks over Brian is there, hunched over a desk and scribbling in one of his thick astronomy textbooks, hair put up into a messy bun and a cup of steaming tea by his side. Roger doesn't realise he is crying until he feels a little bit of snot running out of his nose. He sniffs and tries to clean it, only to wince in pain once he realises he used his broken arm.

Brian turns to look at him then, soft curls are framing his face, eyes misty with emotion, and a small smile adorning his face. He looks so pretty that for a second Roger fears that he is just a hallucination. Something caused by the grief of having murdered his soulmate. The older boy walks over and sits down on the bed beside him. He reaches out to Roger, asking for silent permission to touch his face.

The guitarist's hand lingers a few centimetres away from Roger's face and, in a silly moment of bravery, he leans into the touch.

The world seems to fall away from all around him. One second he is in a room, the bedside lamp is turned on, the window is letting the waining light of the sunset in, and the stained ceiling is staring down at him. Then it's only Brian and him.

The guitarist's hands are rougher than he would have imagined them to be. It is not, however, a disagreeable sensation. His skin is hotter than he knows his own hands to be, it also feels completely different from everything he has ever felt. It brings even more tears to his eyes, and a feeling in the pit of his stomach, which leaves him breathless. Once he gets that, the most insignificant contact of Brian's hands, he wants more.

He craves to bury his nose into the guitarist's neck, kiss his chapped lips, even run his hands up and down his torso. He wants to commit the man's skin to memory, learn every mole and scar onto the point in which he could map out his soulmate's body by memory. He feels the flowers bloom across his chest and for a second he wonders if maybe, just maybe, this is way too much. If maybe Brian's touch is going to kill him.

Then he takes in a breath, and he realises that he hasn't been able to breathe this freely in his _life_.

Brian brings their foreheads together, and for the first time in over a decade, Roger lets himself lean into the touch. 

_**Over my rainbow, love can stay blind.** _   
_**Better than Leprechaun’s gold, you will find** _   
_**waterfall wishes on stars with no swings** _

  
The change is jarring.

At night he falls asleep, holding Brian's hand, and wakes up at an awful feeling of loneliness when he finds that the bed is empty. He can't bring himself to wrap his arms around Brian yet, or even let the younger boy kiss him. But it now feels like he can't live without him. He feels breathless and lonely when he is not around the curly-haired man, and the other boy indulges his soulmates on his whims.

it's strange how someone can quickly become addicted to something.

And Brian is definitely not complaining about Roger's newfound clinginess.

Maybe its the soul bond, perhaps is just how understanding the man is about Roger's life story. The one filled with loneliness and isolation in the face of his gift. But his boyfriend is there every step of the way. He is there when Roger wakes up in the middle of a panic attack because Brian unconsciously spoons him at night. He is there when Roger slowly but surely builds up the courage to kiss Brian's cheek, or give him an Eskimo kiss, or wear nothing but his underwear in the hot summer nights.

He is there when Roger finally gives in to his urges to kiss Brian and gives him a short peck which leaves them both blushing and stuttering like fools.

Just like the blond is there for Brian every time John has to go to the hospital. He is there when John has to go through hours of chemo and other stomach-churning procedures. He is there when the younger man has his small breakdowns about not being able to save everyone, about not being able to heal Roger's fever or Freddie's laryngitis or John's Leukemia.

They are there for each other in the dead of night when their legs are tangled together, and their hands are in each other's hair. And for as long as they stay together they are entirely human. No death to haunt Roger and no life to stop Brian's melancholic personality from blossoming fully. Roger is there to dry Brian's unrestrained tears, and Brian is there to make up for the years of loneliness in the blond's early life.

And in those quiet hours, between murmurs and muffled laughter, they fall in love.

_**and all of my love attached with no strings.  
Close your eyes; take my hand; let yourself feel.** _

 

Brian is Roger's proper hug in almost a decade.

His first boyfriend.

His first love.

His first kiss.

First person to see him naked.

First person he can be truly free with.

And when things escalate, Brian is the one to take his virginity.

After they are done after the younger man had made Roger sing praises and scream in pleasure. After Roger had accomplished his goal of memorising his lover's body by memory. Of kissing every inch of skin, marking him as his and only his. After having had every inch of their skin pressed together and getting nothing but pleasure from it. Brian pressed a soft kiss to Roger's forehead and made a promise to the younger man. He would be there with him until Roger died.

They should have taken it as a warning when Roger was far too blissed out to promise Brian the same thing. 

_**I’ll be your Wendy if you’ll make it real** _   
_**Fly me away to a dreamland that brings** _

"What do you mean they didn't know?"

Roger raked his hands through his hair, "Doctors were too afraid to touch me, nurses were too afraid to draw blood, paediatricians couldn't diagnose me."

"And after that?"

"It was the same, Deaky! It has always been the same, always will be the same! No one will touch me with a ten-foot pole, its a miracle they even managed to diagnose it now!"

The angry words left him breathless, left him clawing for air his lungs couldn't possibly get. Once the coughing subsided, Roger looked up at John with tearful eyes.

"I am going to kill him, aren't I?"

_No_ , John thinks, _his Lucerne is going to make sure you can't._

The older boy doesn't know which alternative he prefers.

_**waterfall wishes on stars with no swings.** _

> **Andrea Dieritrich, Waterfall Wishes on Stars with no Swings**

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so the flowers mentioned in this chapter (and their meanings) are: 
> 
> Hemlock - You will cause my death  
> Five-leaved clover - Bad Luck  
> Hyacinth - Jealousy, sorrow  
> Bellwort - Hopelessness   
> Holly - Am I forgotten?  
> Marigold - Cruelty  
> Crocus - Cheerfulness   
> Wax Plant - Susceptibility
> 
> Comments, Kudos, and Feedback are highly appreciated! In fact, I am a slut for comments! 
> 
> Also, swing by [my tumblr (@iamnotbrianmay)](https://iamnotbrianmay.tumblr.com/)and say hi!


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